My throat is on fire. It's like someone tried to milk my tonsils, then rubbed them with lemon juice. I try not to swallow -- rue that drooling is passe -- and when I do swallow, it's like I'm in an anti-swallowing Pavlovian experiment. I blame our bedroom, which is so dry that when I wake most mornings I look more like beef jerky than I look like any of my ancestors.
I finish the day without incident.
Sore throat, check. Frequent Tourette's-like explosions of sneeze. My eyes are running, and my nose is watering. It feels like someone is manipulating my uvula with a feather. Hack, hack, hack. I'm coughing up crap that looks like pureed pea soup. My skull is like sausage casing around my brain, where someone is throwing an unauthorized rave.
"Why?!" I say to an innocent bystander. "I eat vegetables! I take vitamins!"
"Sometimes you're white blood cells just need to --" he starts. I miss the rest because it seemed like he was leaning medical, whereas I prefer superstitious remedies.
I crawl into the sweet spot of the couch. Low lights, and try to heal myself with a mix of orange juice and TiVo. When Chuck wakes up, I'm curled into my best imitation of the star of an anti-abortion billboard. I grunt once for yes, twice for no.
On this day, my cold bores of the usual escape routes, and tries to forge a path through my cheek. Acne.
I go to bed at midnight, which is, like, epic.
Hm. Deceptive. I feel a little better, and set out into the world. It is brought to my attention that I am a cacophony of sniffling and hacking. And when the sneezes return, and my eyes start watering and I've blown my nose every 15 minutes, I boom-a-rang back to the house.
This coincides with Chuck's weekend. We both set up shop on a faction of the couch, with our heads meeting up at the sweet spot. This is both good and bad: He is able to change the channels and fill my orange juice goblet. But this means I need to have sick manners. No balls of used toilet-paper-as-Kleenix laying on the coffee table. Especially no decorating my sweatshirt with slug-like snot trails. And every so often, I have to wash my hands so he doesn't think I'm trying to poison him.
I have the best intentions of sleeping, but instead scrape reality TV's dingiest barrel, and eventually feel like I OD'd on donuts and where I'd stayed awake for 28 hours straight. I'm in bed by 1 a.m., which means I'm closer to Amish than ever.
Chuck and I get omelets at Sunshine Cafe. I consider snorting hot sauce. I feel like I tried to make a hop scotch board on the sidewalk, using my nose as a writing implement.
I'll be fine tomorrow.